hostage
by cassino
Summary: draco knows this is wrong, that there is nothing worse than losing himself in her arms, but he does it anyway :: draco x hermione, sixth-year au, one-shot.


**summary:** draco knows this is wrong, that there is nothing worse than losing himself in her arms, but he does it anyway :: draco x hermione, sixth-year au, one-shot.

 **a/n:** i was listening to billie's album yesterday and reading a brilliant dramione fanfiction and this struck me. i hope you like it! this is my first time posting fanfiction here, y'all. but i used to write on ao3, but deleted my account (and i'm so glad i did, because… well, let's just say my stories were juvenile at best) and i wonder how different the two websites are. there's a bit more variety here, at least. this is not beta-read, by the way, so all errors are my fault. leave a review to tell me what you think of it!

 **p.s.:** i highly recommend you listen to ' _hostage'_ by _billie eilish_ while reading this.

 **disclaimer:** we all know it. not jkr. don't own it. i also don't own 'hostage'. all rights go to billie eilish.

* * *

 _ **hostage**_

word count: 3816

* * *

 _i wanna be alone_

 _alone with you, does that make sense?_

 _i wanna steal your soul_

 _and hide you in my treasure chest_

Draco doesn't know what he's doing when he sits down next to a distraught Hermione Granger, her painful sobs echoing through the hallway and tugging at his heart. She's surrounded by a pile of canary-yellow feathers and Draco only has a moment to wonder why, before she whips around to look at him.

It's always so fascinating to watch Granger process situations. It's like he can hear the wheels turning in her brain and the thousand different expressions that cross her face are more attractive than Draco cares to admit. She _always_ thinks before she acts—unlike the other two idiots who tag along with her. Sometimes, he wonders how Granger didn't end up in Ravenclaw, but then he remembers her penchant for plunging headfirst into dangerous situations and her weird need to help the downtrodden, and he doesn't doubt the Sorting Hat's decision at all.

A few minutes pass in silence before she speaks. "What are you doing here?" Her voice quavers a bit and he can tell that she's trying to sound strong. It isn't working, but Draco does not comment about it.

He shrugs because he actually doesn't know what he's doing there. He was heading back to the dungeons after an unsuccessful attempt to fix the cabinet and he'd taken a winding route downstairs, not particularly eager to face Pansy and her simpering attentions. He needed time, to clear his head of the bitter resentment and anger which had defined the past few months of his life.

He was ambling down the hidden staircase near the Gryffindor tower when he'd heard her crying. His feet dragged him to her and something about the way she sat, defeated and broken, had convinced him to sit next to her, against his better judgement.

"Spit it out, Malfoy. I know you're dying to make a comment about the _poor little Mudblood_ ," She says venomously and Draco flinches at the way she calls herself a Mudblood—the fact that she thinks that _he_ considers her a Mudblood.

 _Don't you, though?_ A voice asks in his head and he pushes it away.

"Not really, Granger. I'm far too tired to come up with anything remotely insulting right now." _Besides, I don't want to see you cry because of me._

"Huh, that's a first," she snorts and Draco silently agrees, wondering what's wrong with him. The last time he remembers interacting with her, he'd taunted her mercilessly. Why should it be any different now?

They sit, side by side, studying the night sky from the arched windows. The silence is not stifling or dreadful, like the chill of Malfoy Manor. It's almost comforting. It's like fragile glass and Draco feels like anything he says will shatter it.

Granger, of course, feels the need to talk. "You're disappearing every night, apparently. Harry noticed you know. He's convinced you're up to… something, I guess. Merlin, he's almost obsessed with you at this point," she rolls her eyes and he suppresses a snicker. "Where do you go?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, Granger," Draco smirks and she huffs. Then, abruptly, "Why were you crying?"

She glares at him and he cocks an eyebrow. "You can't expect me to answer _your_ questions when you don't answer mine." Her voice is snooty and he's reminded of the self-righteous eleven-year-old she was and how her demeanour used to annoy him.

They lapse into silence again, both of them unwilling to cross the impasse they've reached. It's almost childish, really, but Draco will _not_ give her the satisfaction of being answered.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Granger sighs and pushes an unruly curl away from her eyes. "Ron. He… he snogged Lavender Brown in the common room today. _Everyone_ was watching. And pitying me, I'm sure." She sniffles a bit, and a frisson of panic shoots through him—what is he supposed to do if she cries again? "It's just… I always thought we'd end up together, you know? I do everything for him—hell, I _Confunded_ bloody McLaggen so that he could be on the team… and he doesn't see me, waiting for him. He _never_ sees me." Her voice is watery and he knows she's trying hard to keep it together. Draco wants to reach a hand out to her but _no, he can't_ because they're different, they're supposed to be on opposite sides and touching her will only start a shitstorm Draco does _not_ want to be a part of.

Draco sneers a bit and says, "Personally, I don't really know what you see in Weasel. He has so little to brag about himself that he goes around blustering about _Potter's_ achievements—pathetic, really. I'm shocked that you think he's worth crying over. But then again, you did have a fucked up sense of pity." His words are not really a comfort, he knows, but it's not poison, either.

She snorts and repeats _fucked up sense of pity,_ shaking her head. He smirks a little, watching her as she carefully runs her hands over the denim of her pants as if she's contemplating something.

Her eyes are deep pools of brown as she looks at him and asks, " D-did you take the Mark from _him_? Are you a Death Eater?"

Her words trickle down his back like a drop of cold water and Draco stiffens. He stands up and snarls, like a cornered animal, "N-no! Where did you get _that_ idea? Potter? You can tell him to mind his own _fucking business._ " He immediately regrets his words, knowing that his defensive tone will confirm Granger's suspicions.

"You _are,_ aren't you?" Her voice is coloured with horror and he wants to look away as her face morphs to pity, but he can't. "Malfoy…"

"Don't, Granger… just…" his voice breaks and he clenches his fists. He carefully schools his features into a familiar mask of disdain and says, "Don't make assumptions about something you have no idea about, Mudblood _._ Don't assume anything about _me._ "

And with that he stalks down the stairs towards the dungeons, feeling oddly lonely as his hands shake and the tears threaten to blur his vision.

* * *

 _i don't know what to do_

 _do with your kiss on my neck_

 _i don't know what feels true_

 _but this feels right, so stay a sec_

 _you feel right, so stay a sec_

She drops her bag across from him, and he barely looks up from his book on Vanishing principles as she huffs. Her curly hair is wilder than usual and her eyes are burning with fury as she slams her potions book down on the table. Realisation hits Draco and suddenly, he knows why she's all worked up.

"Still peeved about Potter's little bezoar stunt?" He questions, a slight smirk on his face. He looks up from the book—he's so fucking _done,_ trying to fix that cabinet—and his smirk widens as he looks at her slight frown transform into a full scowl.

Teasing her feels familiar now. He knows exactly how to push her buttons without going too far and she's too gullible to his taunts which makes it all the more enjoyable.

He wonders when it became familiar when _she_ became familiar. That one night on the stairs went on to become a chance encounter in the library, to an unspoken agreement to meet every day in the little Astronomy corner of the library. It became their little haven of escape—from the reality of his task and the horrors of his nightmares, from her heartbreak and constant worrying.

He wonders how she can stand him, _knowing_ that he's a monster and he asked her about it, one day, in a moment of absolute self-loathing. She simply replied that she doesn't want to make the mistake of judging him for what he has been forced to become and bile rose in his throat because he knew he didn't deserve her kindness.

"I don't understand how he _does_ it! I mean, it's a stupid book—how can it be right all the fucking time? I spent so much time on that antidote and he just shows that stupid little goat stone and Slughorn's all over him! I-it's not fucking fair." she seethes. Draco raises an eyebrow at her words—he's never heard her swear.

"Now you know how I feel," Draco says, shrugging. Hermione looks up, comprehension dawning on her face. He knows she understands—Potter's had it all _so_ easy. He's broken more school rules than all of the Slytherins combined and he's _still_ favoured over everyone else. He should've died, several times over, but he _always_ made it out unscathed.

 _It must be nice,_ he thinks bitterly, _to be lucky._

"Yeah, well," she sighs. "I need to find a way to get him away from that book before he learns something much worse than the uses of a bezoar from that horrid book. I-it has dark spells, Malfoy. Horrible curses—I've seen it. I don't want him to get into trouble—he has so much on his plate already."

Draco almost snorts at that. _So much on his plate,_ his arse. Like avoiding Slughorn's fawning and getting cosy in the Headmaster's office every other day is _so_ taxing. How about plotting the murder of said Headmaster when your mother's life is at stake?

He is pulled out of his thoughts by Hermione pulling his book from his hands. He holds his book firmly, not willing to let her see it, to allow her an opportunity to ask questions he certainly does _not_ want to answer. "What are you reading?" She asks curiously and he's about to make up an excuse for why he's reading about Vanishing, of all things, when his left arm starts burning with the intensity of an inferno.

He bends over in agony, clutching his arm and he can vaguely hear Hermione's voice asking him if everything is alright. The pain is decapacitating, terrifying. The Mark burns his nerves and he feels like tearing it off his skin—he just wants _out,_ to escape from the pain and guilt, to escape his dreadful task. But there is no going back. There is no going back from the Dark Lord's ranks or he will suffer a fate worse than death.

His _mother_ will suffer a fate worse than death. And she does not deserve it.

That is the only thing keeping him from running away.

He will fight. If only to keep Narcissa Malfoy safe, he will fight.

He feels cold fingers pushing up his sleeve and he protests weakly, scrambling to keep his jumper in place. She does not listen to him and the dark ink of the serpent and skull burns more as she touches it. He hisses and she recoils, hesitantly cradling his arm.

"What have they done to you, Draco?" She whispers and suddenly it's all too much.

He does not deserve her strength, her compassion, but he basks in it. He cannot be redeemed, he knows that much. But the warmth of her eyes as she looks at him, the single tear on her cheek for _his_ pain makes him believe that he can be _forgiven_ and he gives in to his overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss her.

The pain fades as she gasps and responds to him, her soft lips matching the fervour of his own. His thumb grazes her left cheek, wiping the tear away and her hands slip through his hair and the world narrows down to her and there's nothing left of him but her. He cannot string together a coherent thought as the scent of cinnamon and smoke fills his nose and his fingers get entangled in the labyrinth of her hair. She pulls him closer until there's no space between them and Draco thinks that he can forget _everything_ right there in her arms.

He regains his sanity a moment later, when she pulls away to rest her forehead against his, a defeated sigh escaping her swollen lips—like she is accepting the fact that there is no going back from… _this,_ whatever it is. Draco knows the feeling.

She buries her face in the crook of his neck, pressing a warm kiss to his skin as his hands gently trail down her back. He feels like crying again, for her, for them, for whatever they've gotten themselves into now, because it can only end in tragedy.

He does not know what to do.

But everything in the world feels right again, with her warm body curled up in his arms, his back against the stone wall of the library and so, Draco stays.

* * *

 _gold on your fingertips_

 _fingertips against my cheek_

 _gold leaf across your lips_

 _kiss me until i can't speak_

His back slams against the door of the Room of Requirement and Draco growls, kissing Hermione with bruising passion as she pulls him towards the couch in the middle of the room. Their hands are desperate, pulling robes off shoulders and unbuttoning shirts. He knows he doesn't have much time left with her, that being with her after these stolen moments is almost impossible. She must know too, because her hands possess the same urgency as his own.

They fall into a graceless pile on the couch and Draco shivers as Hermione presses her perpetually cold fingers to his cheek, tracing a path to his newly acquired scar, courtesy of Potter himself. He runs his fingers over her curves, watching as her eyes flutter with pleasure and her lips part. He feels a sense of affection bubble within his chest and wonders whether he should voice his feelings. Whether she'll reciprocate his words or throw them away with disdain.

"I _knew_ I should've taken that book away from him," she mumbles, her eyes on the angry red surrounding the pale white of the scarred flesh and Draco kisses her softly, trying to tell her it isn't her fault—she is blameless for everything that's happened, even if she insists otherwise. "Look at what he did to you. I-I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Draco whispers, twining a curl of her dark hair in his pale fingers. Sometimes, he's fascinated by the poetry of it all—they are complete opposites in every way. Hermione is a painting of rich colour, deep brown and olive tones against gold and red, while he is a pale sketch of silvers and greys and greens. She is everything good and pure while he's stuck in the greys, unable to escape the clutches of the dark.

" _No,_ Draco—" she begins, but Draco pulls her closer. He bites her lower lip, muttering, "Shut up and kiss me."

And she does.

When they return from their high, his fingers map a constellation between the freckles on her collarbone and he says, "I just want you to know that I'm… sorry. For _everything._ I was terrible to you and I understand if you don't forgive me—" he holds up a hand when she begins to speak. He has to get this out. He _needs_ to get this out. "—But I was acting on years of prejudice and unreasonable hatred that my father had taught me, but I was wrong. Merlin, I was so wrong—everything's so fucked up. And… and I feel so sorry that I made you cry, that day I called you a… a Mudblood." She kisses him and he sighs, "I wish things were different but I hope you know that I won't… I haven't thought of you—"

"I know, Draco. Trust me, I do. And I forgive you." She wraps her arms around him and he relaxes. "You deserve forgiveness. You're not _evil,_ Draco—I know you think that. You're not. You're _good_ and _brave_ and _I love you._ " Her last words are a whisper and she stiffens.

But Draco does not let her dwell on her insecurity, as he embraces her tightly, whispering that he loves her over and over again. She forgave him. She _loves_ him.

And perhaps, she will save him, too.

* * *

 _gold's fake and real love hurts_

 _and nothing hurts when i'm alone_

 _when you're with me and we're alone_

The last time he sees her is before he goes to the Room of Requirement to open the Vanishing Cabinet for Bellatrix and the other Death Eaters. His hands shake and his heart thunders, but as he approaches her in their little library corner, he feels at peace.

Her eyes are sad, understanding and he sometimes _hates_ how compassionate she can be. If she wasn't, then perhaps he wouldn't be so in love with her that he can't bear the thought of leaving her after tonight.

But he knows, in his heart, that he would not have it any other way.

"Don't cry, my love," he says, quietly, brushing a few tears with the tips of his fingers. He _hates_ seeing her cry—perhaps it's because the first time he saw her cry was when _he_ was the cause.

She laughs a little, rubbing her tears away furiously. "You've never called me that before, you know. I kind of like it."

He smiles a little, holding her hand. "If we both make it out of this war alive… I'll call you my love, every minute of every day." _If you even want me around, that is._

They haven't discussed the future, mostly because it's so uncertain and painful, and Draco curses himself for blurting out those words. He's almost about to apologise, but her smile suddenly brightens as she says, "I'll hold you to that, you know."

He smirks at her, stealing a kiss from her lips. "I know."

And then, he kisses her for the last time, buries his nose in her cinnamon-scented hair and walks away without a second glance, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists as her quiet sobs reach his ears.

* * *

 _it's not like me to be so mean_

 _you're all i wanted_

 _just let me hold you_

 _hold you, like a hostage_

When she finally wakes up, relief comes crashing down like a flood and he almost buckles under the feeling. Her eyes are disoriented and bloodshot, her voice cracked but it's _his Hermione,_ who says, in a questioning tone, "Draco?"

"How the fuck did you get caught, Granger?" His anger wells up, and suddenly, all he wants to do is scream at her because she _told_ him that she would be safe. Told him that she'd be careful, but here she was, half-dead, and tortured by his crazy aunt, of all people. His heart burns with fear and fury and he's almost blinded by it until he sees her flinch at his expression.

"I-I.." she trails off into sobs and his heart breaks. He approaches her cautiously, hatred for himself replacing the fury. She nestles into his arms, and she feels so light and weak against him that he's afraid she'll shatter if he touches her. Her tears soak through the dress shirt that he hasn't bothered to change out of, and he rocks back and forth, his own tears hidden in her mahogany curls.

They stay like that, his arms trapping her within their safety and her head against his heart, until Fleur comes up to inform him that dinner will be ready soon and her face lights up with joy when she sees that Hermione is awake. "I shall tell 'Arry and Ron zat you are awake, yes? Zey will be pleased to see you."

Hermione just nods and Fleur offers the both of them a parting smile before shutting the door again.

Suddenly, Hermione stiffens and asks, "Did you tell Harry and Ron… about us?"

"I thought _you_ did," Draco says, confusion etched in his gaunt features. "Harry wasn't too surprised when I Apparated here with you."

"Oh, no, he figured it out, last year, he had the Marauder's Map you see—it shows the location of every person in Hogwarts," she says, by way of explanation. Draco rolls his eyes—just what Potter had needed, more help to break the rules. "He told me he knew, when we were on the run. But Ron didn't know. He took it well, I suppose, considering that you're still in one piece."

"Oh, if you mean ' _tried to hex me six ways to Sunday'_ by ' _well enough_ ', then yes, he did take it well. But… he was okay with it after a while, I think. Because I took a Cruciatus for you—Harry told him. He hasn't bothered me since we came here, so I don't know." Draco shrugs, running his thumb over the bandage on Hermione's left arm, where Bellatrix sliced a deep, straight line with her cursed knife. Draco is thankful that he'd fought back before she could proceed—he has a feeling that Bellatrix wanted to do much worse than carve a single line in Hermione's skin.

"You took a _Crucio_ for me?" Hermione asks, her eyes looking larger than usual in her thin face. In the moonlight, she almost looks like a child, innocent and sweet.

"I had to. I-I couldn't just stand by and watch that madwoman torture you, Hermione. I'd had enough. The things I saw there…" Draco shudders at the haunting memories, remembering the Muggles he tortured, the sick pleasure on Voldemort's face as he watched countless people die on one of his pointless revels. He remembers the pain of suffering from the Cruciatus at the Carrows' hand, because he'd refused to torture a first-year—a _child._ He remembers the fear on his mother's face as the Snatchers dragged the three disfigured prisoners and Bellatrix smiled maliciously at the defeated girl in front of her—and he somehow _knew_ that it might be the last time he ever saw her, because he would _die_ to protect Hermione from his aunt's wand.

"It's alright, you know, it's alright," she whispers, a bloodless hand coming to rest against his cheek and he shudders, holding her tight as she soothes him by repeating her words, over and over again. He does not cry—he doesn't think he _can,_ he is too broken for it—but he can feel himself healing as her sweet whispers ghost against his skin.

They whisper their love against each other's lips as they desperately try to forget the last few days—last few _months,_ really. He remembers a conversation they once had in the darkness of a secluded Hogwarts hallway, when he told her that she held him prisoner in her heart because he didn't see any way he could escape from her, from _them,_ without hurting himself.

Her eyes flutter with sleep and she yawns. He kisses her forehead. "Sleep, my love."

He watches as her lips stretch into a drowsy smile and Draco thinks that if he really is her prisoner, he is glad because he's never felt freer than he has in her arms.

* * *

 _i hate that ending but eh._


End file.
